! DISCLAIMER! ~All French text and translations have been taken from google, correct me of any errors! ~ °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
"It is with a strong heart, and an iron fist, that my dues in your blossoming life, has fallen empty and stray. Just as I have wasted away torturous hours in budding a plentiful, fruitfully pursuit, that it is in these times the strength of my deteriorating morals and assiduous nature, has only strung me on a path to reach an unforgivable ultimatum.
My daughter, or my fortress of worldly desires. In which my choice will entail a riot of plentiful strings of hate. My decision was made with the daunting heart of my beautiful Yaalini in mind. Although weakened, you will always and forever be my first choice. Having, the greed for money and it's future gifts will only do good in lathering your body in golds and silvers. In patching the swelling holes in you chest, and In the loss of love.
It is with great sadness I must say
"Until we meet again, -
corazón, "
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Some stories are to be written as a memoir,
A piece of deep intimate narrations, illustrating ones reality, their accounts made via their personal knowledge of themselves.
Memoirs have the mean of evoking great passion through the raw vehement tones and depths of the author. All a memoir truly is, is a piece of good story telling and non - fictitious tone, that could be understood by anybody.
To me at least.
I watched the passers-by blather on, the mellow hues of sonder resting gently on my passive sips of my Nicolas Feuillatte. I took in the complex simplicity of the city, all in contrasting to the temperament of my thoughts.
I casted my empty gaze at the thick pile of documents resting on the shaky table. Her compiled sheets of adieu being the first and last of it I would ever touch.
The high winds seemed to work against my accord, it swiftly ran it's fingers through the multitudes of hand written pages. I watched as they flew, yet never wondered, bounded to the rest of the heavy stack by the one dinky metal that impaled it at its corner.
I really wanted to burn it, drown it, skin it, of whatever she worked so desperately to create. Imagining the battle she had whilst grasping at straws in order to try and lessen the blow of her betrayal to me.
It sent shock waves of buried heat to surface, burning the shell of my ears to blurring my vision in bright stars and darkened spots.
"Mlle estrada, vous avez appelé? " a mundane voice sounded. (French > English: "Miss estrada, you called?")
